Lost Talent by Bogdan Dragos

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sitting alone on the

orange living room sofa

at 02:21

in the night

thinking

trying to feel

something other

than hatred and rage

In older times,

with a younger self,

a book might have

helped

Not anymore

The book she was holding

now

was one for children

A coloring book

and the pencils were scattered

like fish outside

the water

all about the orange sofa

She was holding only

the gray one

and in the light of a small

lamp

began coloring

inside the outlines of

weird characters that

looked like eggs with

hands and legs

and faces

roaming about in what

looked like some cave

Maybe the story

was about their escape

from there

She didn’t bother with

that

She bothered with struggling

to take her mind

away from

the fact that she could not

fall asleep

“How could I go to

bed?” she wrote with

the gray pencil

on the face of one of

the egg characters. “If I even

enter that room…

I will have to stare

at his face. Darkness helps

naught.

I know I’ll still see it.

That face.

Of the one who took

everything from me by virtue

of being born.

The world would think me

crazy

if they heard me now. Yet,

I believe what

I believe.

It is possible to lose

one’s talent by passing

it on to one’s child.

When that kid is born… Or

at least in my case,

when he was born… he took

away my talent for writing.

Now it’s in

him. All of it.

What’s a baby to do with

writing talent?

Why didn’t he take my

lower back pain? Why my

talent?

I can’t write shit now.

The moment he was born…

I lost it.

He took it away. That and

my ability to sleep.

This… I believe is my

ninth night without sleep. An’

I’m not even tired. Just

frustrated beyond limits.

I desire… to hurt and

even kill something. Preferably

something innocent. I don’t

know.

If a small animal were here

with me right now…

I’d wrap it up in duct-tape

and extract its teeth one

by one and hammer them

into its eyes and snout.

It probably wouldn’t make me

feel any better, though.

I also feel like telling people

to leave when I want them

to stay.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell this to

my husband. I don’t want him

to leave me, but I’ll tell

him to. I don’t know…

I don’t need to know.

If I went to a doctor, well,

he’d probably tell me that

all those sleepless nights

messed up my thinking.

So I won’t go to any doctor.

I don’t care.

Something deep inside tells me

that I’ll eventually

need all those sleepless nights

behind me.

I’ll need them to explain

away my actions.”

There was no more room

on the page

and it didn’t occur to her

that a page could be turned

She let the coloring book

fall to the

floor

and put the pencil in her mouth,

with the tip against

the ridges of her palate

Held it there

for a while

I’M GOING TO STAB HIM

is what she

thought she wrote on

her palate with the gray

pencil, but

she only scratched it deep

and hard enough to

draw blood

A blood that she swallowed

again and again

If this doesn’t kill me,

she concluded

as she stretched facing up

on the orange sofa,

then it means I’m meant to kill

someone else. I’ll know

for sure.

She closed her eyes

and the blood in her

mouth kept blooming

and she kept swallowing,

but sleep would not

come

Without sleep

one can’t choke in one’s

sleep.

A very simple conclusion

She opened her eyes

and swallowed more blood

and smiled

and stood,

holding the gray pencil

like a dagger in a reverse

grip

Slowly

she moved towards the

bedroom

-BOGDAN DRAGOS

Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a profession.

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